


Solidaric Loneliness

by meltingthesun



Category: Druck | SKAM (Germany)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, David's Sketchbook, Getting Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 10:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20795480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltingthesun/pseuds/meltingthesun
Summary: There’s slow mornings, and then there’s this; private moments just between them. Matteo knows he is the only one noticing the colour of the sky outside on this Sunday morning because David’s dark eyes are fixed on him. David is an artist; He’s supposed to look at the sky and see colour and meaning and beauty, so Matteo knows it means something.Matteo works the Sunday morning shift at Berlin's pinkest coffee house. David is the only customer. Every week.





	Solidaric Loneliness

There’s slow mornings, and then there’s Sundays at Dotty’s. Matteo tends to the Café alone, because the only person in this city troubled enough to show up before seven-thirty is David, and he doesn’t need a whole set of kitchen staff when all he orders is coffee (black, but he spoils it with artificial sweetener. It’s disgusting.) The boy with the black hoodie sits by the window as always, but he doesn’t take notice of the changing sky, a sickening shade of purple fading into pleasant blue.

Matteo takes the newspaper from the counter and reads aloud: ‚Everything going very wrong. More on page three.’ He puts the paper down with a frown. ‘More than everything? That’s a little excessive.’

‘Can something be a little wrong?’ David scrunches his face up the way he does. Matteo is not a painter, but he swears he could create a masterpiece just by following the lines on his face.

‘Of course. You drink beer with coke, that’s a little wrong. You add vodka, that’s clearly a lot wronger.’

‘That’s it; you stay away from my morning coffee!’ David’s face opens up to show a small smile for a second. Matteo is inherently greedy, so he wants to keep it.

There’s slow mornings, and then there’s this; private moments just between them. Matteo knows he is the only one noticing the colour of the sky outside on this Sunday morning because David’s dark eyes are fixed on him. David is an artist; He’s supposed to look at the sky and see colour and meaning and beauty, so Matteo knows it means something.

It doesn’t start out like this. When David first comes in, he barely takes notice of his surroundings, headphones vanishing inside his hood, eyes trained on his own sketchbook.

So Matteo sits behind the counter and tries not to watch him.

He tops up David’s coffee for free, so the boy won’t leave. Writes his name on his to-go cup as neatly as he can.

Matteo has met lost souls before, but only in passing. He’s never met one that made him want to connect. Made him want to embrace this weird state of solidaric loneliness.

‘Go on, then,’ David says, ‘What does page three say?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ Matteo sing-songs.

‘Matteo,’ David says, feigning austerity, and Matteo has never wanted to sing to the melody of his own name before. ‘Don’t be a tease.’

Matteo huffs. He’s been here for a _year, _watching and waiting and _yearning._ He’s as far from being a tease as he can be. He wonders if David really doesn’t know.

The first time David looks at him, _properly_ looks at him, not just a quick nod over the counter when he orders his coffee, it’s Hans’ fault.

Matteo has settled down on one of the stools in front of the counter, scrolling through memes on Instagram when the door slams open and both him and David startle and turn to look at the unexpected intruder.

The thing is, Dotty’s is too – well, _pink_, to attract the party crowds after a night out – and decidedly too cheery to appeal to the one’s already tending to their hangover.

Anyway, there’s no reason for _anybody _to make a dramatic entrance, since there’s no reason to make an entrance at all. Unless your name is Hans Brecht of course.

He parades in, placing a peck on Matteo’s cheek, pushing him off his stool in the process.

‘Shoo, butterfly! I need a tall Strawberry Macchiato with sprinkles!’

‘Shoo?’ Matteo grumbles and gets to work.

‘Don’t you want to know if I’m coming or leaving?’ Hans asks and, without leaving room for an answer: ‘Both! Just coming home from the best birthday night _ever_, thanks for asking,’ he makes a weird waving gesture with his arms and fingers that Matteo knows by now means _lametta, _but to a foreign person would probably look more like _spaghetti, _‘And I’m leaving to join Andy and the others at a top-secret location for a daylight underground silent disco party!’

Matteo nods vaguely, grabbing the rainbow sprinkles from the shelf behind him.

‘It’s all very gay,’ Hans says solemnly.

‘Promising,’ Matteo says.

Hans goes to grab his wallet from his fanny pack, but Matteo shakes his head. ‘On me. Happy birthday!’

‘I knew there was a reason you’re my favourite butterfly – Oh!’ He turns abruptly at the door, ‘Almost forgot!’ He goes to grab something from behind him and produces a glittery cloud of confetti that rains down ceremoniously onto Dotty’s purple doormat. ‘Happy Hansiversary!’

Matteo can see David’s staring at the door, too, and then they both kind of turn to each other with equally puzzled expressions. Matteo shrugs and then he has to turn away to hide that he’s blushing.

When David leaves that day, Matteo stands behind the counter and calls, ‘See you!’, just as the door is about to close. David gives a court nod.

Matteo stumbles back when David tackles him to get hold of the paper in his hand. David curls his hand around his wrist to steady him.

‘Fucking hell, are you planning to kill me?’

‘Me? You’re clumsy as fuck!’

‘I’m a w_aiter,_’ Matteo says proudly, ‘So you’re clearly _wrong.’_

‘I saw you drop stuff twice just this morning! And it’s not even busy! I don’t even want to know what you do when there’s actual customers about.’

‘Fair enough,’ Matteo mutters because he can’t win with him, can he? David’s hand is still wrapped loosely around Matteo’s wrist. It’s distracting, and his brain doesn’t work, so he just keeps looking at him, as if he can win an argument by pure force of attention.

‘Come on,’ David says, removing himself from his proximity, and his touch leaves a tingling sensation down Matteo’s fingers, ‘I need some feedback.’

The first time Matteo sees one of his drawings, it’s entirely by accident. It’s a week after the Hans incident and he’s entirely too nervous considering nothing _really_ has changed. Except, David _has _looked at him. Maybe he’ll do it again. So he’s got his order ready behind the counter. It’s the same every week, so it’s easier to prepare it beforehand. It’s convenient. (It’s desperate, and Matteo knows. He _knows.)_

The doorbell rings and Matteo pushes the coffee over the counter immediately. Smooth. Only David stares at him strangely, and Matteo has to hide his blush behind his own mug of hot chocolate.

David puts the money on the counter, 2 Euros and 25 cents, and pushes them over without a word.

Matteo watches him walk over to his usual spot. He has to physically turn away to stop watching, so he misses his cue to top up his only customer’s coffee and when he does, he’s hectic and flustered, and then he spills coffee everywhere.

‘Fuck, sorry!’ He throws his apron onto the table and snatches up the sketchbook and some of the brushes David has been using, while his victim jumps from his chair to save himself.

‘That was close,’ David says. He’s smiling, so Matteo has to look away. His eyes catch onto the painting he’s holding.

‘Is that the sky?’ He asks before kicking himself mentally. Invading privacy much.

He looks up at David carefully, expecting annoyance, but finding – he doesn’t know. His face does something weird, where his mouth scrunches up and his eyes sparkle.

‘No it’s a tree,’ David says.

‘Oh,’ Matteo looks down again. He can’t see it; it’s just colours. Not tree colours, mind. But then again, Matteo doesn’t know about art. He doesn’t know shit.

‘Matteo, I was joking. It’s the sky, muppet.’

‘Oh,’ Matteo says again, trying to find words when all he can focus on is the fact that David knows his name. He’s wearing a name tag, he’s aware, but that doesn’t change the fact that David bothered reading it. ‘Well, it’s good,’ he adds lamely, just to offer words that aren’t unintentional love declarations.

‘Why thank you for your expert opinion,’ David says. This time when Matteo looks up, he’s definitely smiling, the kind of smile you feel in your limbs; you feel heavy with it.

‘So?’ David says, once they settle down, his sketchbook between them on the flowery table cloth.

‘Thaaat’s,’ Matteo says, stretching the syllable mockingly, ‘A-ma-zing. The best pineapple I’ve ever seen!’

He’s met with a fist against his upper arm and then David snatches the book from the table, holds it against his chest.

‘Ouch, okay, let me look.’

‘No.’

‘Pleease?’ he does his best puppy eyes.

‘It’s personal,’ David warns.

It is. It’s a comic strip about a boy growing up, but the people around him are constantly mixing up his pronouns, marked in screaming red against the monochrome of the drawings. And the thing is, the boy grows, but he seems to simultaneously shrink into himself, too. There’s bright spots, too. A girl with curly hair and a yellow heart shaped like a sun is the first one to call him by his real name. A cashier in the supermarket that calls him one handsome lad. There’s people with mocking faces, the slurs falling directly from their jaws into a dark pit in the bottom of the page. The last frame is the boy inside the window of a pink coffee shop, black hoodie in place.

Matteo traces the lines. He’s not trying to make sense, just taking his time to find the words.

‘So, I, as an expert,’ he says, pushing up imaginary glasses on his nose, ‘I’ll say this makes me feel,’ he swallows against something in his throat, ‘It makes me feel the loneliness. Helplessness. And I wonder,’ he looks up at the boy in front of him, the one with pencil lines on his fingers and traces of sleeplessness in his face, ‘I wonder if the boy knows he’s not alone.’

The first time Matteo dares to hope, it goes like this:

‘Left or right?’

Matteo blinks sleepily against the brightness of the smile that presents itself first thing in the morning. They’ve been exchanging words for a few weeks now, always over the refill that Matteo’s waiting for impatiently while David hunches over his sketchbook. Matteo would never admit it, but it’s the highlight of his week. David is sarcastic and smart and funny and he talks about his favourite drawing utensils like other people talk about their family. They’ve _talked_, but not like this.

Not David bursting through the door and shouting at him first thing.

‘What?’

‘Left or right, muppet. My hands.’

‘Well, I’d hope you still have both.’

‘Choose, idiot.’

Matteo rolls his eyes because firstly, insults are accepted only after 9:45 in the morning, thank you very much, and secondly, the way David says it, it almost sounds like an _e__ndearment _and he _cannot _deal with that.

‘Right,’ he says.

‘No, choose again.’

‘Uhmmm, left.’

‘Jackpot!’ He places a black pen with a pink little crown in between them.

Matteo stares.

‘You,’ David says, and Matteo is pretty sure he is _blushing_, and also that they have slipped into a parallel universe in which cute boys blush over _him. _‘You always lose yours.’

‘I love the crown,’ Matteo says, ‘Does that make me a princess?’

‘It’s supposed to represent Dotty’s, but –’ David smiles and Matteo doesn’t look away this time, just smiles back helplessly, ‘You can be whatever you want to be, I guess?’

‘He does,’ David says.

Matteo takes his hand, just as the door bursts open. It has been happening more often lately, David staying so long that they accidentally slide into the morning rush. Sometimes, David stays for hours after, watching him brace the crowds, laughing at his failed attempts to balance three coffee mugs at once.

But today, he gets up with a tired smile.

‘Next week,’ Matteo promises.

‘Next week,’ David agrees.

Matteo thinks about beginnings. About first times. First smiles. First hushed words exchanged, secrets shared and kept. About courage and timing. He thinks for a week.

There’s slow mornings, and then there’s today, where Matteo is getting worried, because it’s late. David is late. Matteo kicks a chair. It falls to the ground and he stares it down reproachfully.

When the doorbell goes, he almost expects it to _not _be David, to be some kind of cosmic jokes, for today to be the day someone else actually decides to turn up early.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

Matteo looks up from the chair because David is better to look at anyway. And that’s just it – David is his absolute _favourite _thing to look at. He’s his absolute favourite thing full stop.

‘Missed you,’ David says, the door still in his hand.

‘You know we’re technically open seven days a week?’

‘No way,’ David pushes forward until his vans brush Matteo's sneakers, foreheads almost touching, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Wanted you all to myself, didn’t I?’

It’s not a real kiss, more like smiles pressed into each other. It’s not a real kiss, but it’s still the best kiss Matteo’s ever had. He never wants to stop, and he gets the feeling, because time works differently around here, that maybe, he doesn’t have to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading if you've made it through the mess haha x


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